


New York Lifetime

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Breaking Up & Making Up, College Student Castiel, College Student Dean, Dean In Love, Dean Makes Mistakes, Friends to Lovers, Heartbroken Castiel, Heavy Angst, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Mild Language, New York, Rain, Walking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “No,” he says, swinging his head furiously side-to-side, “no, I can’t do this. I can’t point out the obvious, alright? You’re the one showing up long after dumping me here like-like clothes for donation!” Cas closes his eyes and buries his hands in his face, forcing tears back—tears not even nights involving copious amounts of alcohol could push out—before he combs through his dark, messy hair. “You didn’t even tell me why you left! No phone calls, no text messages for months, almost a year! And to think I…”“What?”“To think I loved you.”





	

 

In many ways, he's amazing.

He can tell you stories like he's a curator and the city is artwork. He can tell you what Bartholdi was thinking when he and four other men were soaring fourteen stories above the cityscape, or how Campin felt when he ran his first stroke across what would later become the Mérode Altarpiece. He can even tell you how sore a Rockettes’ sole was after a week-long performance.

But that's not what Cas wants to hear. They both know of the unspoken truth settling around them as heavy and clear as snowfall on the Catskill Mountains. 

He can tell you stories, but never tell you the right ones.

They're walking along the High Line, a scarce divide between myriad flowers and buildings that seem to endlessly change like Tetris blocks. Boots slap hollowly against the wooden floorboards. Someone takes a breath; neither can be sure who. Maybe it's no one. Maybe it's wishful thinking.

"Did you know Tenth Avenue’s known as Death Avenue?” Cas does know, having lived here for two whole years, but he’s not stopping for Cas to answer. “The train that ran along these tracks was in service until 1980, and it ran for over a hundred years before that, despite all the tragedy it caused. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine all the spirits wandering these tracks?”

Cas shrugs. “I’m not a believer.”

“Really?”

Cas laughs, though there’s no humor in his tone, “Yes, Dean, really. I’ve never believed in ghosts.”

Dean squints as if he truly doesn’t understand, and Cas can’t help thinking just how unfair that is, how someone can just keep on keeping on with their life, knowing the heartache they sowed into the veins of someone else’s crops like venom. “Sorry, man, I must’ve forgotten. It’s been a while since I’ve been back.”

“And yet you remember every facet about this place.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. The promise of rain is high today. If only it did rain. That would give Cas an excuse to head home and lock himself in his apartment he still needs to downsize. “I love New York. Cornell has always been my dream school, you know that. Yours, too.”

“I honestly don’t know what I know anymore.”

“What’s that mean? Are you okay, Cas?”

And there it is: the question Cas wished Dean would have asked when he went through every possible stage of separation known-to-man. New York didn’t help much, with its nonstop, chug-chug-chug, go-go-go lifestyle, making it impossible to catch up. Not like he could anyway, when he’s already lost two years in what truly feels like a New York minute.

Cas starts speaking, leaving no room for misinterpretation: “No, Dean, I’m not okay,” he asserts. “I’ve never _been_ okay. I didn’t move here to go to Cornell, okay? It wasn’t _my_ dream college—it wasn’t even one of my top three choices. I was supposed to be two states away at Harvard on a scholarship, but instead I’m gratuitously spending money I don’t have so I could go to school with _you,_ Dean.”

Dean stops, eyebrows arching over his tanned forehead. “I-you didn’t tell me you got accepted into Harvard.”

“You never asked.”

“I shouldn’t have had to ask, Cas,” Dean says, scoffing as he throws his arms out, “we’re best friends, you should’ve flat out told me.”

“ _Were_ best friends,” Cas corrects, to which Dean’s eyes widen and his chest deflates.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No,” he says, swinging his head furiously side-to-side, “no, I can’t do this. I can’t point out the obvious, alright? You’re the one showing up long after _dumping_ me here like-like clothes for donation!” Cas closes his eyes and buries his hands in his face, forcing tears back—tears not even nights involving copious amounts of alcohol could push out—before he combs through his dark, messy hair. “You didn’t even tell me why you left! No phone calls, no text messages for _months_ , almost a year! And to think I…”

“What?”

“To think I loved you.”

There they are: the most important words in his vocabulary, out in the open for anyone to steal. The worst part is they’re directed at the one person who stole more than his words, or his breath. Dean Winchester stole his heart.

Cas can practically see the smoke pillowing out the way Dean’s mouth hangs open like an exhaust pipe from one of the many passing cars below. Cas is familiar with those plush pink lips that famously curve into Cheshire’s or crooked smiles. They make the freckles on his face dance, and his eyes light like an emerald bonfire that Cas always got sucked into whenever he made one of his stupid biology jokes, or the time they almost got busted smoking a joint in Dean’s ’67 Chevy. “You…”

“Forget it,” Cas scoffs, “it’s not like I was expecting you to fall on your knees in front of me and beg my forgiveness. Why would you? You made it perfectly clear you stopped caring about me a long time ago.”

Despite the pounds of sand on top of his feet, he storms off. Luckily, it’s starting to drizzle, so even if Cas is turned towards him, Dean can’t tell he’s weak from crying—or weaker than he is now, anyway. And Cas has always felt strength from loving Dean, as a friend and as a longtime crush. No matter what the kids throughout elementary and high school said, loving him meant fighting for something.

He just wishes Dean had fought as hard.

“I went to Kansas.”

Cas stops, but doesn’t turn around. At least not right away. “What?”

“I went to Kansas,” Dean repeats. “I thought I could go back to the old house for answers, but most of it was burnt to a crisp.”

Cas shakes his head with a sniffle. “Answers? Dean, what—?”

“Please…” Dean pauses to catch his words, as if the rain is trying to sweep them away. Then he’s down on both knees in the now pouring rain, skinning his blue jeans more than they already are. His eyes, the bonfire, are burning like crazy. Yellow and orange embers ignite the whites around his irises to a bright red, and a sob overthrows him. “I tried so hard to forget about you, Cas, but I remember everything. I remember the night we met, what you wore on Halloween back in ‘06— and I know you don’t believe in the paranormal, because when we were twelve, I was convinced there was something in my closet and you told me you were watching over me, and weren’t gonna let anything happen to me if there was.”

“Why did you leave then?” Cas asks, voice breaking as he steps closer.

“I…”

“Cursed or not, you remember _that_?”

Dean’s lip quivers. “I-of course I do, I just—”

“Then what is it?” Cas presses.

“Because I-I… I loved you too.”

Cas’s throat hitches, but not from his tears. “What?”

“I was—I am in love with you, Castiel Novak,” he repeats as he stands up, “It only took me ten years to get that out, but it’s still truer than ever. I thought I could drop my feelings off on the I-70, but I was wrong. The more I drove, the worse it got.”

“Dean.”

“And I’m sorry I dragged you here only to quit two years into the school year. I’m sorry I royally screwed your one shot at being someone other than my best friend, because, as it turns out, I’m pretty shitty at it.”

“Dean—”

Dean chuckles dryly, “I’m sorry I even showed up again. I probably made you feel even worse with everything I’ve said. You deserve someone who’ll compliment you every day on your ridiculously blue eyes and your gummy smile and the way you say hello and the little giggle you do when you let them pull your finger—”

Cas curtails the distance between them with a kiss. It’s slow and tentative, but neither men hold back. Over the tears, over the rainwater, and even over the gas station jerky and stale mint, Cas tastes something stronger than heartbreak: happiness.

After a minute, someone takes a breath; neither can be sure who. Maybe it's no one. Maybe it's wishful thinking.

Dean’s chasing Cas’s lips when Cas pulls away first, and Cas has to refrain from getting lost in him again—the right away this time, the proper way. “Dean Winchester,” Cas says, eyeing him as he runs a hand across Dean’s jawline, “you’re a real prick, you know that?”

“Mildly putting it,” Dean says tightening his grip on Cas’s waist, then smiles, really, truly smiles, and _that_ is a masterpiece Cas has and will continue to have a thousand stories for: “At least I’m finally home.”

 

 


End file.
